


your presence like starlight

by simplycarryon



Category: Pyre (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-14 17:24:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11787891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: Here, in this moment, you are willing to accept that Pamitha is not your foe—that this daughter of Triesta Tithis, wine-winged and lovely in the low light, is someone you would even consider a friend.(or: an ongoing collection of Jodi/Pamitha shippy oneshots because wow haha Ignarius who's that)





	1. sunset

You wonder if you'll ever be used to the sound of Harp wings meaning anything but _alarm, alarm, weapons ready, on your guard._ Even now, even knowing that the flurry of distant wing-beats indicates nothing more than Pamitha returning from foraging, the sound of her approach winds you tight, coils readiness like a tensed spring in your gut. Inaction pains you—a surge of fighting spirit sends fire down your spine, flooding your limbs with heat—but you wait, still and ready, forcing down memories of Harp talons bloodied with your fellow soldiers’ lives.

Pamitha lands beside you, the sound of ruffling feathers sharp in your ears.

“Watching the sunset, darling? I suppose it’s quite a sight, even from this far down.”

It occurs to you that in your effort to still yourself, you’ve settled for focusing on the distant horizon, and you pointedly shift your gaze from it to her. She smiles ever-so-slightly and tucks her wings in close to her body, unthreatening; the gesture, small as it may be, eases how tightly-drawn you feel.

“Just keeping watch,” you reply, rolling your shoulders to relieve the tension further. “The others have already settled in for the night. Hedwyn made soup, if you’re hungry.”

“Did he use those gutter-crabs Rukey collected yesterday?” Pamitha laughs, a fluttery lilt. “Tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll pass. I’d rather go fishing in the morning.”

“At least he had salt to add this time.” It doesn’t make much of a difference, you suppose, but it is a little more flavor—something to compete with the pungent waft of day-old gutter-crabs, objectionable at best even when fresh. 

“Soup is also slightly more difficult for me to appreciate,” she points out, extending one wing—slowly, slowly, so your breath doesn’t catch in your throat, she tries not to make sudden movements around you—and holding it out for your examination. “It’s the lack of hands, I think. Soup does not play well with talons, though I am a fair wing at managing cups and bowls, when I must.”

You reach out a hand in return, your fingertips the barest trace of contact against her crimson plumage. It isn’t reverence you feel, but perhaps something close, and softly, deliberately, you exhale. Here, in this moment, you are willing to accept that Pamitha is not your foe—that this daughter of Triesta Tithis, wine-winged and lovely in the low light, is someone you would even consider a friend. 

It doesn’t sink in that you’re staring until she brushes your cheek with her wingtip, and the spark it sends through you leaves you startled-breathless and you’re not sure if it’s from the sound of her feathers or the tenderness of the touch. 

Amusement glimmers soft in her sky-blue eyes as she allows you a necessary moment to gather your frayed wits back about you.

“As I was saying—I think the wagon will feel a bit claustrophobic for me tonight. If the idea isn’t too abhorrent to you, perhaps I could help you stand watch?”

“I hardly need help,” you say, the response automatic, but then you relent. “Though I suppose I would not mind the company.”

“Good,” she says with a hum, and flits past you into the expanse of the blackwagon, only to emerge a moment later and perform an awkward flap-jump to get herself up to the roof. “Care to join me up here, darling? It’s quite comfortable, I promise.”

In response, you shrug and _leap,_ landing lightly on the wagon’s crest. This sort of jump is nothing to you these days, though you can’t help but feel that you might be showing off, just a little.

Pamitha, duly impressed, hides a smile behind one wing. “Such grace. Why, if I didn’t know better, I would think you’d been blessed by the Saint herself.”

Before you can argue that point, she pushes a bottle at you, the liquid inside pearl-pale and enthralling, glittering in the dying sunlight.

“This bottle stinks of misery,” you inform her once you sniff at it, though you are hardly one to turn down a drink when it is offered—and it does smell like liquor, at least, though perhaps not one you’ve ever had the misfortune of sampling. You pull the cork out with your teeth and take a cautious sip, savoring the burn as it sears your throat.

“I acquired it from a miserable bog-crone, so I suppose it is only fitting,” she says, taking a long draft from the bottle when you pass it back. “Though it isn’t bad, once you get used to it. And, smallest of mercies, it never runs dry.”

“A small mercy indeed. Tell me more of this bog-crone, then. What did you have to pay for a bottle such as this one?”

It is thus that you pass your night, trading stories and drink in equal measure. And when she complains of the chill and nestles carefully close, resting her head on your shoulder, you breathe slow and allow it.


	2. clipped

You catch her staring at the sky.

Not the stars, as the Nightwings are wont to do, but—the _sky,_ you realize; the great open expanse, a too-blue thought of home. And as she stares upward, it sinks in that it means far more to her than it does to you. A reminder, perhaps, raw and real. A freedom denied her by a Commonwealth that ruined her wings and cast her down.

She notices you watching. Or, more precisely, she stops pretending she doesn’t see you, turning to meet your gaze with an even smile and a laugh that rings a shade hollow.

“Are the grounds prepared for tonight’s Rite, then, darling? I’d help you set our sigil in place, but you seemed to have it well handled.”

“The grounds are set,” you reply, assuming your space next to her. “No sign of the Pyrehearts yet, but the Reader assures me they will be here, so of that I have no doubt.”

“Good. Looking forward to the chance to stretch my wings a bit,” she says, unfurling them just enough to wrap one around your shoulders. The touch of feathers still gives you a little pause, but you know better than anyone that this is a process, and you value her presence. “Perhaps the Wyrm-knights will make me work for our victory tonight.”

“Does it hurt?” you ask.

“What, darling? Chasing a troop of quivering Wyrms? Hardly.”

She laughs again, but you deflect it; you are blunt for a reason. 

“Flying. And,” you add, taking her other wing in your hands, “this.”

When you touch the curved line of clipped feathers along her wing, a caress as gentle as you can manage with clawed hands better suited for war, you think you see her shudder. 

“No,” she says, after a moment, her voice low. She tilts her wing in your hands, looking on the cut feathers herself. “No. It’s a bit like getting a haircut, when done with precise hands, though I’m surprised your Commonwealth butchers could manage it painlessly, considering how little they actually cared.”

For once, the bitterness in her tone is unhindered, though you realize she’s still trying to make light of the moment.

“And they don’t grow back?”

“I thought they might, at first. That I would shed the ruined quills within the passing of a year, and grow new ones, untouched by flightless folk. But after a year of exile, I realized that would not be the case.” She looks at you, then, her expression controlled calm. “It seems the skies are forbidden me now, save for the occasional flutter.”

She wants no apologies from you, you realize; merely acknowledgement, an understanding.

So you nod, tracing a thumb across the curve of her clipped flight feathers, considering their faded crimson; thus, you dwell on her answer, and the way she has come to terms with her new reality. Though you are quickly growing acquainted with the intricacies of Harp anatomy, you are still astonished that cutting only a few of her many feathers could ground her better than any restraint or word of binding. 

“Gently, dear,” she reminds you, one corner of her mouth turned upward in a lopsided smile. “They don’t hurt, but you may well glare them right off, if you continue like this.” 

“You are hardly the sort to be ruffled by intensity,” you say, relinquishing your already-gentle hold on her wing nevertheless, letting her pull it back in and away from your scrutiny. “I doubt my gaze could disturb even the smallest down feather.”

Her laughter is real, this time, and you revel in it.


End file.
